Through the window
with its imported glass
costing as much as herself,
she sees two starlings on a cedar branch
fringed in sweet scent.
They lift then lower their wings. The soft black
infused with indigo
light
shines like the hair
she unpins and releases
into the white embrace of her lover.
The master's son.
A stretch. A shaking
out
of self and moisture, the birds delight
in this act -- as she often does
coming from the copper bath,
rinsed and wrapped in linen
only to bare her body
to another. Yet, she looks
sideways,
her hand tracing the square
footage within the frame,
and she becomes resentful
of the iridescent pair. They are owned
equally
by the wind and sky.
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